


The Morning After

by kitnkabootle



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle/pseuds/kitnkabootle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the morning after Runway’s Christmas party and Miranda’s up for a few surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

Twelve drummers drumming did not quite compare to the repetitive thudding that woke Miranda in an unfamiliar hotel room the morning after Runway’s annual Christmas party.

She was laying flat on her back, completely naked except for a white starched sheet clinging to her body, her only semblance of modesty. Her neck swiveled to the side, her cheek grazing the soft pillow as she blinked blearily, trying to focus on her surroundings.

The Plaza. She knew it instantly by its furnishings. She also vaguely remembered reserving the suite the night before, after she’d consumed three glasses of Krug, Clos du Mesnil. Wait, no it wasn’t she that had reserved the suite but Emily after a hastily barked command. At least, she’d thought it was Emily. Anyways, she remembered watching the maybe-Emily limp towards the desk, missing a shoe.

Miranda swallowed roughly, her mouth feeling numb from the alcohol she’d consumed and she allowed her tongue to swirl around the stale tasting recess. It was then that a small jolt of pain coursed through mouth, tensing the muscles in her jaw and her fingers flew to her lips, pressing against them in confusion.

She wiggled her tongue again and the same pain returned, causing splotches of red to form at her cheeks. Finally she parted her lips and dipped the pad of her index finger to the tip of her tongue and slid it up its center where it met with a small metal ball that caused a hiss of pain to shoot down her throat. Miranda gasped. She was fifty years old and she’d had her tongue pierced.

The noise caused a faint echo from the lump in the bed sheets next to her, followed by the soft noises of lips smacking, which caused the editor’s eyes to shoot open as her chin flew in its direction. As her gaze shifted she couldn't help but notice various items of clothing strewn over the bed, many that were entirely unfamiliar to her. A rising sense of discomfort swelled in her stomach as she plucked a bra off of the lump of white duvet and tossed it to the floor.

At a crossroads between curiosity and unbridled urgency, Miranda reached forward and pulled back the covers, revealing her bedroom guest. There beside her, curled on her side, her dark hair billowing across her pillow -- was Andrea Sachs her second assistant.

A memory from the previous night's hazy events resurfaced and she recalled that same dark hair, lazily trailing over her collarbone as she watched the girl's lips descend towards one of her breasts. A smile crept across her face at the memory and she felt a small tingle work its way between her legs.

The feeling was short lived however when she felt the orchestral pounding in her head, crescendo to a fortissimo. Her eyes moved across the room again, in search of her bag which carried her only possible salvation from the pain and she saw it uprooted on the chaise lounge in the corner, its contents spilled across both the piece of furniture and on the floor. A wine bottle lay next to it, almost empty with only a single red drop having leaked into the carpet beneath it.

More wine... that explained the headache.

A sigh of relief dropped from her lips when she spied a silver pill box amongst her other belongings. Only a few feet remained between her and blissful unconsciousness. But as Miranda moved, she felt something grasp at her waist, restraining her against the bed and her head darted to Andrea.

The girl remained completely asleep so she nudged her just slightly to free herself. Predictably, her second assistant stretched like a cat, smiled contently and turned over before returning to the even breathing pattern of before. Miranda marveled at the way the muscles moved beneath the pale skin and she bit back yet another smile that seemed to edge its way across her face.

She made a second attempt to move but found that she was still restrained, causing one of the editor's slender brows to rise in a cocktail of confusion and annoyance. She lifted the sheet back and saw the arm still firmly about her middle, coming from the entirely wrong direction if it were to belong to Andrea.

She stopped breathing momentarily. If it wasn't Andrea... then who...

In haste, Miranda's eyes shot to the opposite side at another lump in the sheets. She drew a long breath through her nostrils and ran one hand through the ribbon of white at her forehead, pushing it away from her eyes before latching her fingers on to the linen and peeling it back.

Even though the figure was lying on its stomach she didn't need to think twice about its identity. The ruby red tresses gave it away immediately and Miranda stared perplexed at her first assistant, Emily Charlton.

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks burning as she remembered the dark haired assistant swirling her wet tongue around her nipple while a scarlet head bobbed between her legs.

She turned over and buried her face into the pillow, all hopes at walking or even standing having been tossed completely out the window.

Revelations and repercussions she could deal with later. Or better yet, die before she’d have to. But it could have been so much worse, after all. And she did recall a few new things she learned from the night before and a few things she’d never even contemplated trying. Just what had Emily been doing with that wine glass…

She slid her arm beneath the pillow and turned to her side with a small smile playing at her lips.

The sheet slipped off of one shoulder as she moved, shifting to rest beneath a sinister looking horned creature inked permanently into her skin.

It could have been much worse, indeed.

\----------  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Merely borrowed to play with – all rights go to the original creators. I own nothing but ideas and a penchant to torture.  
> Author's Note: Not beta-ed – just for fun! Hope you enjoy this mild bit of fluff. It’s a one-shot. Completely inspired by the Amanda Marshall song ‘Sunday Morning After’.
> 
> Originally Posted on LiveJournal - January 15th, 2009


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